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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26282374">oh, my heart</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/livepoultryfreshkilled/pseuds/livepoultryfreshkilled'>livepoultryfreshkilled</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>honey, if this plane goes down, i don't even want a parachute [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Succession (TV 2018)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>4am rlly is TomShiv Time here on ao3 huh, ADHD Siobhan "Shiv" Roy, BPD Siobhan "Shiv" Roy, Bisexual Siobhan "Shiv" Roy, Bisexual Tom Wambsgans, Domestic, F/M, REPULSIVELY SO, Sweet, THIS IS SO FUCKING. (SCREAMS), Trans Tom Wambsgans, all my other fics were so fucking sad this is my apology, local billionaire does not know how to make her own coffee. more at 8, local man loves his wife so fucking much. more at 7, oh tooth rotting. abysmal. who let me on a computer</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 07:01:38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,853</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26282374</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/livepoultryfreshkilled/pseuds/livepoultryfreshkilled</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>you told me love is bullshit, but i simply can't abide by that. for, darling, sleep is love, laughter is love, suitcases and sweaters and coffee is love. you are love, we are love, sweetheart, and i have come home early just to see you smile.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Siobhan "Shiv" Roy/Tom Wambsgans</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>honey, if this plane goes down, i don't even want a parachute [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1842073</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>oh, my heart</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>this literally isnt a character study or anything. it has no introspection. he just Love Wife (edit: i edited this like a ton in the past two hours so if u read this before 8PM 9/4/20 i would suggest reading it again. beta who i dont know her)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Shiv is standing in the kitchen, staring blearily at the coffeemaker. </span>
  <em>
    <span>It is much too early to be alive,</span>
  </em>
  <span> she decides. </span>
  <em>
    <span>The world should only start turning at 10 AM.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a Sunday, and Tom is coming back from a trip to Colorado. Neither of them will have anything to do for the rest of the day, which she appreciates. A sweet, lazy morning, like dust floating in a beam of sunlight, warm and tranquil. Cozy, even. Shiv yawns. He’d been gone for about a week, some Boulder conference about websites, or tech. Whatever. She didn’t miss him or anything, she’s not </span>
  <em>
    <span>needy</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but his absence was... acknowledged. Mondale always whines when Tom goes away for long trips; Shiv tries not to take it to heart. And, among other things, Shiv particularly disliked having to make coffee for herself; twice this week she had started the machine without any water, which resulted in a horrific grinding noise that will likely haunt her for the rest of her life. </span>
  <em>
    <span>What’s the point of getting married if you have to make your own coffee?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The machine dings just as she hears Tom was unlocking the door behind her. Shiv smiles at the coincidence; there’s exactly enough coffee for two cups. Tom would probably call it serendipity, and Shiv would probably laugh at him for it. She reaches up to the cupboard and grabs the mugs.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The door slams triumphantly. “The prodigal husband returns!” Tom declares. Shiv snorts. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Mhm?” Her back is turned to him, so she allows herself a small smile. It’s not her fault, she was just sleepy, and she left her poker face in the other room. “The flight was okay?” She turns to look at him, but Tom is already rushing away.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Verily! Forsooth! He will relieve himself of his satchel and shortly return!” Shiv closes her eyes and sighs enduringly, leaning back against the counter. The wheels of Tom’s suitcase click down to their bedroom. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Goofy, </span>
  </em>
  <span>she thinks. </span>
  <em>
    <span>There’s no other word for it.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Tsk</span>
  </em>
  <span>ing fondly, she redirects her focus back to the coffee, pulling the sugar rack over and shaking her head. Shiv likes her coffee black, like most adults, but Tom is a baby who can’t handle anything more bitter than a latte. It’s cute, really, but she doesn’t tell him that. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The hot mugs burn the backs of her fingers, because she has always been much too impatient to wait for them to cool down. She walks very quickly back to their bedroom, still very careful to avoid any spills, both for her own sake and the sake of their white shag rug. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Shiv hops slightly when she tries to push the door ajar with her foot, making the coffee splash forebodingly. “How the fuck do you have this much energy at 7 AM? Didn’t you just take, like, a four hour long red eye?” She sets the cups down quickly on the dresser and massages the angry red skin on her smoldering hands. “Are you on coke?”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh my god.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Tom swallows audibly. “Oh my </span>
  <em>
    <span>god,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>he repeats, clutching his chest. His mouth hangs open, eyes wide with shock.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Tom?”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Tom falls on the floor, still gripping the front of his shirt. He grabs the comforter, slouching over. “My heart…” he trails off weakly.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Holy shit, Tom!” Shiv runs towards him and cups his face and attempts to look into his eyes, clamped shut in apparent agony. “Are you okay? Can you breathe? Does your, fuck” Shiv tries to recall the symptoms of a heart attack, “does your arm hurt?” She grabs his bicep, like she would be able to tell from touch. Her breaths are coming out rapid and uneven. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“My heart is…" he gasps, "</span>
  <em>
    <span>…exploding… </span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Shiv freezes. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“You motherfucker.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Tell my wife,” Tom wheezes, “that I always loved her.” He gives one final, shaky breath and falls limp on the ground. Tom, Shiv notes, has a very convincing death rattle.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Shiv shrieks. “Oh, you fucking bitch!” She whacks him hard on the arm she had previously been holding. “You are such an asshole!”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Tom, apparently deaf to her complaints, blinks rapidly as he stares up from his place on the floor. He rises slowly, feigning bewilderment. “Where am I?" He gropes the air blindly. "Is this Heaven?” His hand makes contact with her boob. “Are you... an angel?” Tom's eyelashes flutter in mock innocence.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"Ugh!" She shouts, slapping his hand away. Standing quickly, Shiv folds her arms over her chest. “You little freak!” </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Tom makes an indignant sound. "Freak! </span>
  <em>
    <span>Freak! </span>
  </em>
  <span>I am </span>
  <em>
    <span>wounded,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Shiv. You have </span>
  <em>
    <span>wounded</span>
  </em>
  <span> me." Tom points, accusatory, at Shiv's rolling eyes. "Is it </span>
  <em>
    <span>my </span>
  </em>
  <span>fault my wife murdered me? Slaughtered me in cold blood?” He reaches up and grabs the hem of her shirt desperately. “Have you </span>
  <em>
    <span>no pity</span>
  </em>
  <span> for a dying man?”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Shiv purses her lips, hiding her smile. “No. Fuck off.” Tom rises to his knees and clutches her legs, his eyes reverent. She assesses him, his barely suppressed smile, his warmth, his skin, worn to fit her touch. “Shut up,” she adds, kicking him slightly, because maybe she missed him. Just a little.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“To think," Tom laments to no one, "my own wife." Shiv bites her tongue to keep herself from laughing. "Siobhan. Shiv. Darling. Honey. Munchkin. Love of my life, apple of my eye, rhyme to my reason, peanut butter to my banana,” and she can’t help but let out a snort at that one, “my dear sweet angel. You are killing me," he informs her, "You are killing your husband.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m killing my husband,” she echoes, deadpan.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes. Brutally. Graphically, even.” </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>She quirks an eyebrow. “How am I killing you?”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Graphically,” he reminds her.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Graphically.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“You're making me love you too much, and my heart can't take it. You’re inhumanly adorable, Shiv. It’s like I married a chinchilla!” Shiv is caught off guard by her own perplexed laugh, trying to mask it as a cough; she's still supposed to be mad at him, but he's not making it easy. “A sexy, heartless chinchilla. You’re just so </span>
  <em>
    <span>small </span>
  </em>
  <span>…” Tom whines adoringly, “oh god, it’s too much to bear!” he wails, melodramatic as always, and buries his face in her thigh. She smacks his head playfully.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>small? </span>
  </em>
  <span>What the fuck are you talking about?”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Tom’s voice is muffled into her leg. “Shirt…”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Shirt? What about my shirt? You pretended to have a heart attack because of my fucking shirt?”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Tom turns his head, eyes still closed, and nuzzles her thigh. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“My </span>
  </em>
  <span>shirt,” he corrects dreamily. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Shiv looks down. It </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>his shirt, she realizes, and she’s swimming in it; the cuffs of the sleeves nearly reaching her elbow and the hem falling a little past her upper thigh. She slept in it, like she usually does, since they're soft enough and big enough to work as a nightgown. Which is not, in fact, indicative of her size, but </span>
  <em>
    <span>Tom's;</span>
  </em>
  <span> everyone short of fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>Greg</span>
  </em>
  <span> must look lilliputian to him.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“I am not fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>small</span>
  </em>
  <span>, you ass, I'm actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>above</span>
  </em>
  <span> average height for a woman. You’re just freakishly tall and, like, top-heavy. I am normal sized.” She pauses. “Fuck you.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>His smile widens, gazing up at her. “Oh-ho-</span>
  <em>
    <span>ho.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Did I strike a nerve, Shiv?”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“No, you fucking giraffe," she brushes his temple softly, "Did </span>
  <em>
    <span>I?”</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Tom presses a chaste kiss to her leg. “No, you’re too cute, and I love you too much.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Shiv cocks her head, considering him thoughtfully. His head is warm on her bare thigh, and his stubble scratches slightly against her smooth skin. She runs a hand over his head, brushing off a stray piece of lint. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You're a good guy, Wambsgans,</span>
  </em>
  <span> she muses, </span>
  <em>
    <span>and I like hangin' out with ya.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re still an asshole,” she concludes.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"Mm," he responds, the unabashed fondness in his face leaving a pit in Shiv's stomach in the nicest way.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Her expression softens. “And you’re weird.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Suddenly, Tom jumps to his feet and grabs Shiv by the waist, lifting her into the air. She shrieks. “I adore you! I missed you so much!”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Jesus Christ! You were only gone a week!” He spins around, holding her tightly in his embrace. She yelps and scrabbles at his shoulders for purchase. If he drops her, they're getting divorced.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“An eternity past!” He peppers small pecks all over her face and neck. She smacks him again. “Agony!” he declares.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Fucking—stop that!” He buries his face into the crook of her neck and plants a big kiss. “Stop! That—” she cackles, </span>
  <em>
    <span>“haha </span>
  </em>
  <span>—tickles, don’t— </span>
  <em>
    <span>ha </span>
  </em>
  <span>—do that!” Shiv grabs Tom’s head for balance. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Nooo!” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Shiv’s cries for mercy devolve into helpless peals of laughter.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” he kisses her neck again, “I’m sorry, are you,” and again, “ticklish? You wouldn’t,” and again, “happen,” and again, “to be ticklish,” and </span>
  <em>
    <span>again</span>
  </em>
  <span>, “would you?”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Shiv tries to catch her breath, wheezing, tears peeking out of the corners of her eyes. “Bastard,” she gasps, “fucker.” She screams again as Tom flops backwards onto the bed with her still in his arms. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Planted face down on Tom's heaving chest, Shiv attempts to compose herself. She inhales, watery and slow, and realizes, bizarrely, that she missed how he </span>
  <em>
    <span>smelled</span>
  </em>
  <span>. As strange at that sounds, she had gotten accustomed to his stupid aftershave, his too-expensive shampoo, and what was unmistakably </span>
  <em>
    <span>Tom,</span>
  </em>
  <span> memorized their association. She sneaks a glance up at her husband, and, maybe for the first time in her life, allows herself to be in love. To be </span>
  <em>
    <span>home.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Their coffee is probably cold, she notes distantly. She can’t bring herself to care, because Shiv is just so warm, lying on top of him (cozy, even) and she realizes that </span>
  <em>
    <span>he’s </span>
  </em>
  <span>the lazy morning. The scent of coffee someone else made for you, the Sunday you spend with them, the house and life that you share; Shiv had always deigned these things below her, sour grapes and all that, feared the looming threat of dependence that comes with familiarity. She thought vulnerability only existed in the form of a bared neck, and it's jarring, really, for it to be presented to her so plainly. She has always been unsettled by comfort, set on the offensive, but right now she lets herself forget how to be scared. Honestly, she's much too tired to do anything but hold her lover's hand. Tom is the sunbeam shining through the window, and she doesn't mind being his dust. Over fifteen years of him, </span>
  <em>
    <span>them,</span>
  </em>
  <span> and Shiv seems to have let her guard down. Just for the moment, that’s alright; life only starts at 10 AM, after all.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>She rests her forearms on Tom’s chest and kisses him, sweet and slow. He cups her face, threading his fingers in her hair like he always does. Shiv feels like you do when you’ve only just woken up; warm, unaware of the world outside, and reluctant beyond words to exist anywhere else. He kisses the crown of her head, his big, dumb smile lighting up the room. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you miss me?”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Shiv can’t suppress her own grin. “Not even a little.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>livepoultryfreshkilled on tumblr. pls hmu to talk about tomshiv. if u give kudos ill love u forever and if u leave a comment we r legally married</p></blockquote></div></div>
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